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User blog:Squibstress/A Slant-Told Tale - Chapter 25
Title: A Slant-Told Tale Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual content; violence; abuse; alcoholism Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Twenty-Five 16 August 1963 Alastor stood and wiped the tears from his eyes while Minerva silently conjured a handkerchief so he could wipe his mouth. Gods, how he hated to puke! Apparition had always made him sick to his stomach, but he’d learned not to show it for fear of being seen as weak in front of his Auror mates, and he could usually manage to keep his lunch safely inside him, even for fairly long hops around Britain. But Apparating across a large body of water was an entirely different matter. He had a trans-Channel licence, of course, but he hadn’t used it much. He let those other sods—the ones who were panting to move up in Magical Law Enforcement—take the occasional international assignments. Alastor Moody was content to fight Dark wizards in his own backyard; Merlin knew there were enough of ’em about, even without a fearless leader to get them riled up and organised. Yet here he was, depositing his morning kippers into the Cherbourg dust. Minerva silently Vanished the mess he had made, and after a few minutes she asked, “Are you feeling better?” “Yeah. It always affects me like this,” he admitted. “I’ll be good as new in a minute.” Minerva looked no worse for the long hop, and Alastor tried not to feel resentful that a woman who couldn’t weigh any more than eight stone soaking wet had a stronger stomach than an Auror who tipped the scales at almost thirteen. When he felt more in control of his upper digestive system, he said, “I reckon I’m ready now,” and Minerva gave him a small smile. Offering her arm, she said, “I’ll just take us to an alley I know in Paris. Malcolm’s going to meet us there.” Sure enough, as soon as Alastor got his bearings, Minerva’s son was there, clapping him warmly on the back and directing them to a bistro in the Quartier des Mages, Paris’s slightly larger equivalent of Diagon Alley. “My flat isn’t too large,” Malcolm said apologetically, “so I thought we’d lunch here.” Alastor didn’t care much for French food—a bit too nancy for his taste, he found—but Minerva ate with a gusto he’d rarely seen back home. As they ate, Minerva interrogated Malcolm about his apprenticeship until her son put up an exasperated hand. “Mum, slow down; I’ve only just started with Maître Legrasse. He barely even lets me near the cauldron yet.” “Well, what does he have you working on?” Minerva enquired. “He’s got a new de-aging potion he’s testing out,” Malcolm said. “He’s the guinea pig. And I help him record the results in the log.” “De-aging?” Minerva said, wrinkling her nose. “I’ll never understand the quest for eternal youth. There’s so much you potioneers could be doing, and it seems as if half of you are hard at work trying to find ways to make us all more attractive to one another.” Malcolm gave a good-natured shrug. “I just do what he tells me, Mum. You know how it is to be an apprentice.” He lowered his voice so that Minerva and Alastor had to lean in to hear him properly. “But this potion isn’t just cosmetic. Maître Legrasse is hoping that this will actually reverse some of the oxidative stress on cells, not just mask it superficially. I’m pretty excited about it, actually.” Minerva appeared relieved. “Well, that’s fine then,” she said, and tucked into her tarte Tatin with a vigour that brought a smile to Alastor’s face. They all repaired to Malcolm’s tiny flat—more of a garret, it was—in Montmartre. Malcolm was obviously proud of it; his Transfiguration skills had clearly helped him make it more liveable, and Minerva and Alastor made the requisite noises of approval. Alastor laughed when Minerva cast a few cleaning spells when Malcolm went to the loo. The group went to dinner—in a small Muggle restaurant in the neighbourhood this time—before Minerva and Alastor bade Malcolm goodnight and went back to their hotel in le Quartier des Mages. Minerva was clearly pleased to see how well her son had settled into life as an apprentice potioneer in Paris, and Alastor allowed himself to be pleased along with her, although he couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to spend two years studying Potions. Especially given Malcolm’s prowess with a wand—the boy would have made one hell of an Auror, but Alastor supposed it would have given Minerva a heart attack to have her son join her lover in such a dangerous profession. And the boy seemed content. The next day, Minerva went to have brunch with Malcolm and his master, Eustache Legrasse, and Alastor begged off, claiming a desire to do a bit of research into his French relatives. He didn’t like lying to Minerva, but no good could come of her knowing exactly what he was up to at this juncture. He’d tell her about it if anything came of his research, and she’d surely understand why he’d kept it quiet. It was a frustrating morning for Alastor, whose French could most charitably be described as rudimentary. After some back-and-forth with the clerk at the Biblioteque Magique, he finally sat down at a splintery carrel with a stack of old newspapers. After two hours of painstakingly reviewing several weeks’ worth of Le Sorcier Libre, he found what he was looking for. Or thought he had. On the front page below the fold of the 18 September 1956 edition was a small picture of Gerald and Minerva on what must have been their wedding day. Macnair wore a loopy grin as he was clapped on the back by several arms. Minerva’s smile—more like a grimace, really—didn’t change over the few seconds’ worth of motion in the photo. Below the picture was another photo, this one of an impressively robed and moustachioed wizard nodding soberly at the camera. The caption read: “Le Chevalier Petrus Berquier”. Alastor hated him on sight. He managed to get what he thought was the gist of the headline—this Berquier berk was being questioned in Macnair’s disappearance—but gave up on the accompanying article. Alastor spent another ninety minutes going through the remaining newspapers, finding only one more story that mentioned Berquier and Macnair. The desk clerk was impatient with Alastor’s lousy French, but he finally managed to convey to her what he needed, and she made him understand that the charmed parchment would cost three Sous per sheet. When the transaction had been conducted, and Alastor drew his wand to begin magically copying his pages to the parchment, the witch made a hissing sound that Alastor had previously associated with angry cats. He looked at her questioningly, and she pointed to a sign that read: Defense de Jeter des Sorts dans le Salon des Livres!! Alastor gave her a helpless shrug, and she frowned and pointed again. He got it after a moment—no spellcasting in the main library—and groped for his phrasebook French. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Um … où?” The woman pointed to the left, saying, “Dans le couloir là … deuxième porte.” “Yeah, okay, thanks … er … merçi.” As he turned away, he heard the witch mutter, “Espèce d’idiot Anglais …” Now that he understood clearly. “That’s Irish idiot to you, yeh great fecking cow,” he said through gritted teeth, although he knew the bitch couldn’t hear him. There was a short queue to get into the door marked Salon de Magie-Copie, and Alastor got in the back of it, hoping the room would turn out to be what he needed. When his turn came, the attendant was fairly helpful, letting Alastor know in passable English that he had to supply his own parchment—Alastor held up his recent purchase—and that he could cast the copying spell himself, or that, for an extra two Sous per page, the attendant could do it for him. Alastor chose the first option, and when he was done, he took the opportunity to ask the man for directions to the men’s. The fellow told him in pleasant English, tipped his cap, and wished him “Bon après-midi,” and Alastor’s faith in French civil servants was partly restored. Shrinking the copied parchments, Alastor slipped them into his cloak pocket and headed back to the hotel to meet Minerva and Malcolm for the sightseeing Minerva insisted he partake of. After seeing Notre Dame and La Madeleine, Minerva proclaimed herself famished, and the three slipped into a bistro for an early dinner. As she was putting out the lamp that evening in the hotel, Minerva asked Alastor, “Did you find what you were looking for?” “No, not really,” said Alastor, forestalling any further discussion by asking Minerva, “What did you think of Legrasse?” “I don’t know exactly,” she replied. “He’s rather quiet when the topic isn’t Potions. Although he was quite complimentary of Malcolm.” “I’m sure he was,” said Alastor. “He’s lucky to get such a bright lad, and I’m sure he knows he had a lot of competition.” “Yes,” agreed Minerva. Alastor said, “I was surprised Malcolm chose Potions over Transfiguration.” “I imagine he wanted to avoid following too closely in his mother’s footsteps. Besides, you can’t deny that Potions is potentially a more lucrative field,” Minerva remarked. “True,” said Alastor. “But were you disappointed?” “No. Not as long as he’s happy with what he’s doing, and he seems so at the moment.” “What about Dumbledore? After all those private lessons, he mustn’t have been too chuffed about Malcolm’s deciding against taking Madam Marchbanks’s offer.” “Well, the lessons weren’t all about Transfiguration. Albus helped Malcolm with a number of things.” “Really? What kinds of things?” “Oh, this and that. Things Malcolm was especially interested in,” Minerva said. “As a favour to me.” “That was good of him,” said Alastor. “Mmm,” was Minerva’s only response, and Alastor suddenly wondered if the quarrel she had had with Dumbledore had been about Malcolm. That would certainly explain how upset she had been. She and Alastor hadn’t spoken of it again, and Minerva seemed to have recovered from whatever had happened, so he didn’t bring it up again. But he couldn’t help wondering. The three spent the following day at the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay until Alastor declared he couldn’t stand to look at one more fuzzy old Muggle painting. Malcolm was rather insistent that they return to the same bistro they had lunched in the day Alastor and Minerva had arrived, which both Alastor and Minerva found somewhat tiresome, but Alastor was fatigued enough from meandering about the museums that he helped Malcolm argue his mother down. The reason for Malcolm’s enthusiasm for the tiny wizarding establishment shortly became evident in the form of the petite, blonde waitress who came to take their order. “Ah, Malcolm!” she cried when she arrived at the table, “Tu m’as manqué hier.” She blushed (most attractively, in Alastor’s estimation) when she saw the look Minerva gave her. “Oh, je suis désolée, madame … monsieur,” the girl said with a quick curtsey. “That’s all right, Eliane.” Turning to his mother, Malcolm said, “Mum, this is Eliane Giroux. Eliane, this is my mother, Minerva McGonagall, and her friend, Alastor Moody.” “I am very ’appy to meet you, Madame McGonagall, Monsieur Moody,” Eliane said, bobbing another curtsey. “The pleasure is all ours, Miss Giroux,” said Alastor. “You’re a friend of Malcolm’s, I take it?” “Yes, she is,” Malcolm said quickly, and Alastor didn’t fail to see Minerva’s raised eyebrow. Eliane said, “Oui, but now I am meant to be working,” giving Malcolm an apologetic smile. “So, may I take your orders?” The orders duly made, Eliane hurried off to the kitchen. Alastor decided to see how long it would take Minerva to begin the inquisition. She managed to wait until Eliane had brought the wine and disappeared once again, Malcolm watching her walk away rather than attending to what Alastor had been telling him about the latest exploits of the Ministry’s most hapless Auror, John Dawlish. “Did you meet this … Eliane here at the restaurant?” Minerva enquired as soon as the girl’s shapely behind disappeared behind the kitchen doors. “Hmm? Oh … yes,” said Malcolm, turning his attention back to the table. “It was the first day of my apprenticeship, and I was absolutely certain it would be my last. I’d mucked up a potion, you see … a minor one, but still … quite embarrassing it was,” he confessed. “I came in here for a spot of lunch, and I guess I looked so pathetic that Eliane took pity on me. She brought me a glass of the house wine, and when I said I hadn’t ordered it, she said, ‘C’est cadeau’—it’s on the house. She told me I looked like I needed cheering up.” When he noticed the look Minerva was giving him—and Alastor could barely contain his laughter at the sight—Malcolm said, “Oh, Mum … it wasn’t like that, honestly. She was just being kind. “Anyway,” he continued, “I um … I ended up eating dinner here the next day. I had stayed late at the lab, and she was just about to leave, so I invited her to sit down with me. There was nobody else in the place, so she did. She asked me what I had been so sad about, and when I told her, she didn’t laugh at me. She was just … really sympathetic. It turns out she’s working here—it’s her aunt’s place, by the way—and she’s working here until she can earn enough money to do a Laurea magistrale in magical astronomy at the University of Bologna.” Alastor asked, “Laurea magistrale?” “Yes. It’s their equivalent of a mastery,” Malcolm answered. “The less magically dependent disciplines are integrated into small magical colleges within the big Muggle universities,” he explained. “The Italians are big on magical-Muggle relations.” “They would be,” remarked Minerva drily. At that moment, Eliane reappeared with their meals, so the discussion of her merits was curtailed. When they got back to the hotel, Minerva was quieter than usual, and Alastor couldn’t resist goading her, just a little. “So Malcolm’s got himself a little French girlfriend.” Minerva turned with tightly pursed lips. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” she said and went back to brushing out her hair. “I don’t know, Minerva … you know what they say about these French girls—oh, la la!” This time, when she turned, she gave him the full weight of the McGonagall glare. “Oh, come on, Minerva,” he said. “The boy has a right to a little relaxation … a little companionship.” “Yes, I know,” said Minerva. “But … she’s a waitress …” Well, well, well! He said, “Look out, Minerva … your pure blood is showing.” “Now, that’s not fair!” she said. “It has nothing to do with that.” “Oh? Then what does it have to do with?” he enquired gently. She looked flustered for a moment, then said, “It’s … it’s just …” Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, gods, Alastor … you’re right. I didn’t realise it, but you’re right. There’s no reason it should bother me that she’s a waitress. It isn’t as if she’s got no ambition.” Alastor went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s all right, love. We all have our prejudices. The important thing is that we recognise them when they start to trip us up.” Minerva put her arms around him, saying, “And just how did you get to be so wise, Alastor Brendan Moody?” “I’ve chosen me women well,” he said. “It tends to rub off.” “I just hope Malcolm’s chosen well,” she said with a sigh. “Ah, don’t be so worried, lass. It isn’t as if he’s marrying the girl.” As he said it, Alastor made a mental note to himself to find out if Malcolm knew any contraceptive charms. Although he wouldn’t have been surprised if old Dumbledore had had that talk with Malcolm, just as he had with Alastor. Maybe that was one of the “this and that” he’d helped the boy with. The thought gave Alastor a momentary pang of … well, jealousy, not to put too fine a point on it. He couldn’t help feeling a bit fatherly toward the boy, and the notion of Dumbledore doing a father’s duty made Alastor feel like he had a few stones in the pit of his belly. Maybe he should have married Minerva after all. As they settled down into bed, he thought, Maybe when I find out what happened to Macnair. Maybe then, she’d feel free enough to say yes if he proposed. Maybe then, he’d feel free enough to ask. ← Back to Chapter 24 On to Chapter 26→ Chapters of Slant-Told Tale, A